For the Sake of Art

It was well known—or at least, widely speculated—that his chief reason to become a part of the art world was so that he could view the most lurid films, the most depraved paintings, and the most obscene photographs all “for the sake of art.”  Furthermore, the man could find something objectionable in almost any scrap of media, no matter how innocuous it seemed to the average viewer.  

This never went over well with his students, who felt his obsession with hidden debauchery in art signified a stunted sexual maturity, and felt his behavior might be more suited to a tittering middle school boy just discovering the intricacies of female anatomy.  His male students did not act embarrassed, even though they often were.  Their mode of dealing with the insinuations generally took the form of blank stares; paying too much attention to the slides shown or to one’s note-taking might imply a more-than-academic interest in the subject matter at hand, and consequently create an unwanted commonality between professor and student.  

The females, however, possessed the freedom to squirm, fidget uncomfortably, or roll their eyes away with an uneasy smirk.  These nervous gestures combined with a general shrinking of the atmosphere seemed to hover about the attractive girls, rather than the more unattractive.  

A member of the latter sort was sitting in the third row back, two seats in from the aisle with the aisle seat empty.  It was the best place to be, in her opinion, if one wanted to see the slides, hear the lewd commentary, and be able to exit the classroom in a hurry once the lecture was over.  It was a simple matter to walk up the remainder of the aisle and dart to the north entrance on the right.  The professor’s lectern was near the south entrance, and this method of departure usually let one slip by without notice, comment or concern.  She considered herself possessed with natural stealth.

At the end of this particular lecture (and much to her dismay) the professor had decided to wheel a cart with books, slides and the spare projector across the front of the room and towards the north door.  By this time, she had already started in that direction and was quite close to the exit; to rush forward would be rude, and to rush back would imply discomfort.  To stay and shift her weight from foot to foot would seem furtive.  And so, she stood aghast—absolutely motionless, hoping she would not be noticed.  But—she was.

If there was a single word she could have picked to describe herself, it would be “unassuming.”  Her height was exactly half an inch less than the national average for Caucasians, and she had what she would call a very “average” color of auburn-brown hair, falling fuzzily to an average length down her back.  Her eyes were stained a watercolor gray, with a little bit of some other pigments seeping through.  

At this point, she was wondering to herself, Why, if I’m so average, can I not simply disappear into thin air?  She noticed with chagrin that the cart was pausing right in the doorway.  Why, of all times to be noticeable, must I be noticed?  The creaking of the cart wheels under the strain of books sounded as though it was coming from the head with thinning yellow hair that was turning toward her.  The corners of her mouth pulled back ever so slightly, and she could feel her throat trying to retract itself back down into her lungs.  The wet walnut eyes rested on hers at last—or rather, her eyelids as she indulged herself in a steeling blink before looking back up at the most looked down upon professor in the entire art program.  Behind her, the west door shut.